Chapter Text
Chapter 1
"No witches this time!" Dean yells from the bathroom. He sticks his head out a moment later, toothbrush dangling out his mouth and a line of toothpaste dribbling down his chin. "Or demons!" he adds.
"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Sam mutters, "Because that's how this works."
Dean spits and rinses before stalking into the main room.
"All I want is just one easy old fashioned salt-and-burn. Is that too much to ask?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?" Sam inquires from where he's sprawled across the far bed.
He doesn't look up from his laptop, eyes glued to the screen searching for new cases. Dean groans and throws himself face first onto his bed. He contemplates going to sleep like this: on top of the covers, fully clothed. He turns his head so he doesn't accidentally asphyxiate himself in the lumpy pillow when Sam makes a small noise of interest.
"Find something?" he asks, voice slightly muffled.
"Maybe," Sam answers noncommittally.
Dean waits a few minutes for Sam to continue. He's just decided its safe to close his eyes when Sam starts talking again.
"So check this out, I've got an article here that looks promising. Four teenage boys dead in less than a month. All falling to their deaths."
"Huh," is all Dean bothers to respond with. It may be strange, but it's not strange enough to meet their level of strange.
"First boy, Eric Landers was fifteen. Fell from a twelfth story balcony. Police report says the parents were both at work when it happened. All doors and windows to the apartment were locked so the police don't think it was an intruder. Parents refuse to believe it was suicide. They say he was a straight-A student, pitched for his high school baseball team, and volunteered at the local animal shelter. Healthy and happy, no signs of drug use or depression."
"Accidents happen," Dean grunts. Still not their level of weird.
"Second boy, Emilio Espinoza Jr. falls out of the same building ten days later. His father, Emilio Espinoza Sr., is being held on suspicion of murder but Mr. Espinoza is claiming he's innocent and saw a man push his son out of the bathroom window. When police arrived however there was no sign of another person inside the apartment and Mr. Espinoza was unable to explain how the man entered or exited."
Okay, starting to get stranger.
"Where is this?" Dean mumbles.
"Gotham."
The effect is immediate.
Dean snaps his head, "Alright we'll ship out in the morning."
"Really? What convinced you? You didn't seem all that interested earlier?"
Dean locks eyes with his brother and grins, "Dude, its Gotham. Batman."
Three hours down the road the next morning and Sam is still giving him shit.
"Dean, he's an urban legend."
"What? How can you think that?" Dean scoffs, "Sam, there have been sightings of him for years. Newspaper articles, photographs!"
"Yeah, and there are photographs of Bigfoot too," Sam snorts.
"We aren't talking about a mythical creature here. It's a man who fights crime like a bad-ass. How is that harder to believe than the shit we deal with everyday?"
"If he is real, why dress up like a bat to fight crime? C'mon, who does that? A bat? Really? And he's supposedly been running around for what almost twenty years and not once has anyone figured out who he is? How old is he at this point anyway?"
"I don't know. Maybe he just really likes bats. nd hey, Dad was running around wiping out vamp nests single-handed when he was pushing fifty. It's not impossible."
"Point," Sam concedes, "But Dean, Batman fights crime. We hustle, commit credit card fraud on the daily, and kill things for a living. If Batman is real and we meet up with him he's gonna put us behind bars, so let's try and keep your fanboy-ing to a minimum."
"God, you are a buzzkill," Dean groans, "How much further?"
"Couple more hours. So how do we want to work this? FBI, CPS, clergy?" Sam changes the subject.
"How many victims again?"
"Four. Eric Landers, Emilio Espinoza, Anthony Grotto, and Lamont White. All between the ages of fourteen and seventeen."
Dean thinks for a second. "Let's go with FBI. Serial killer we've been tracking through New York and Pennsylvania. That gives us a reason to be interested in such a set Modus Operandi."
"Busting out the Latin? I'm impressed. Remind me why I'm the one who always has to do the exorcisms?"
Dean pops up an eyebrow, "That's Latin? Huh. I just got that off NCIS."
"I can't tell if you're joking or not," Sam frowns, "So I was looking at the police reports and I plotted the addresses. The first two deaths happened in the same apartment building. The third across the street and the last one two blocks away."
"So, son of a bitch is expanding its territory," Dean extrapolates.
"Yeah, and that's not all. The killings are becoming more frequent. Espinoza died ten days after Landers. Grotto died seven days later. Lamont White, five days after that."
"How many days until the next one dies?"
"There's not really enough to establish an actual pattern but at this rate it will be four days after Lamont's and Lamont died two days ago."
"Crap. That does not leave us a lot of time," Dean growls, unconsciously stepping down harder on the gas pedal.
Sam doesn't say anything, just watches highway signs flash by. Dean hates this part of the job; knowing that there's going to be someone they probably aren't going to be able to save. That a kid might die because they weren't fast enough. No matter how many people they save, so many fall through the cracks. There's not enough bourbon in the world for Dean to forget that at night.
He clears his throat, "Alright. This thing, whatever it is, seems to have pretty specific tastes. We should be alright to split up. That way we can cover more ground faster and hopefully stop it before it kills again."
"I want to start off investigating the building Landers and Espinoza lived in. It is where everything seems to have started. I can question the Landers and check the apartment for any EMF readings," Sam volunteers.
"I'll see if I can have a talk with Mr. Espinoza Sr. and the family of the last victim. Sound good?"
"Sounds good," Sam agrees.
They spend the next hour in silence except for Van Halen playing over the speakers. They stop to refuel the tank and their stomachs once before the spires of Gotham start to rise over the skyline. Eight miles out from the city proper, they drop their bags in room 208 of the Econo-Lodge off exit 59 before splitting up. Dean drops Sam off in front of Tower Loft apartments before heading to the other side of town.
Blackgate is worse than he expected. Worse than Fulsom. Bigger, darker, and on an island like damn Alcatraz. He’s glad he’s on this side of the bars this time. He counts cameras and watch towers under the guise of adjusting his tie and tying his shoelaces in the parking lot. Decides to switch out the FBI wallet for the state-provided-attorney briefcase after eyeing the razor wire running across the walls. The security is higher than he’s comfortable with without having a warden in his pocket. He doesn’t want to bring more attention to himself than necessary, and giving them Bobby’s number isn’t going to be enough if they run badges on entry. Sure enough, once he steps inside there's an officer is ahead of him, handing his badge over to one of the guards.
"Aw, come on Rudy. You know who I am. I'm just here to cross check some facts with one of Blockbuster's guys."
Dean listens while a second guard pats him down and puts the briefcase through an X-ray. God, he feels naked without a gun.
“Yes, Officer Grayson but procedure is procedure. If I don’t, Waller will toss me out on my ass,” the guard takes the identification card and runs it through a swiper. An electronic voice reads, “Officer Richard Grayson, Bludhaven Police Department, Precinct 4.”
The officer laughs good-naturedly, “That she will. Your boss-lady is terrifying.”
Dean's guard isn't as congenial as Rudy. He doesn't bat an eye at the fast-food salt packets shoved into his pockets though which Dean appreciates. When he finds the flask of holy water he raises an eyebrow but lets Dean keep it. He does however frown at the silver pen-knife and discards it. Dean catches Officer Grayson and Rudy looking his way.
"Sorry," Dean puts on a self-deprecating smile, "First case. My law professor gave me that when I passed the bar. I should've known that wouldn't be kosher here. Feel kinda stupid now."
"No worries," the officer flashes him a grin, "When I responded to my first call it was a noise complaint--bachelorette party. They thought I was the stripper and cuffed me with my own cuffs. My partner had to come in and get me. Precinct will never let me live that down."
Dean stares at the man, disturbed at what passes for law enforcement in Bludhaven. Dean estimates he has a good four inches and fifty pounds on him. Dark hair and dark blue eyes in an obnoxiously pretty face; Officer Grayson looks like a Calvin Klein ad shoved into uniform. Dean shifts uncomfortably in his cheap suit. He is relieved when the guard interrupts.
"S'okay," the guard says disinterestedly, "You can pick it up on your way out. What's your name?"
"Simmons. Dylan Simmons."
Dean pulls out his wallet with the fake ID.
The guard drops the pen knife in a manila envelope and writes ‘Simmons’ across the front. Dean grimaces at the loss but all things considered everything is going fairly smoothly. They make him sign in a log book and minutes later he’s being guided away from the bubbly Officer Grayson, down a hallway and into room divided into little cubicles. Before long Emilio Espinoza Sr. is being herded into the chair on the other side of the plexiglass. Dean’s first impression of Espinoza Sr. is enough to confirm his suspicion. Mr. Espinoza did not kill his son. He’s a small man. The orange jumpsuit looks about two sizes too big on him, the sleeves cuffed twice so they don’t get in the way of his hands. He wears it uncomfortably, like a noose he’s expecting to tighten at any moment. His eyes are red-rimmed with bags under them, face slack. Everything about him screams tired and grieving. He picks up the phone and his voice sounds as tired as he looks.
"Hello?"
Dean clears his throat, "Hi, Mr. Espinoza. My name is Dylan Simmons. I'm going to be your lawyer."
Espinoza's mouth turns down, "I already have a lawyer. Walter Goodman."
"I know. Mr. Goodman is in the hospital with a pretty severe case of pneumonia. Your case was handed over to me."
"Oh. Okay," Espinoza accepts the switch too easily for a man who cares, "Why are you here? Can't you just read my file?"
Dean shifts and pulls the briefcase onto the counter top. He opens it and pulls out a stack of papers.
"I have your file right here, Mr. Espinoza. But I wanted to hear it directly from you."
Espinoza exhales. It sounds painful.
"I don't want to talk about it anymore."
Dean takes a deep breath. Sam is better at this part. He tries to think of what Sam would say and the expressions his face would make and channel that. Minus the puppy-dog eyes.
"Look, Mr. Espinoza I'm going to tell you a secret. I've read your file." He hasn’t. He has no idea what’s typed up in those pages Sam handed him earlier that morning. “And I believe you. I don’t think you killed your son. Did you know that two other boys have fallen to their deaths since your incarceration?”
Espinoza shakes his head.
“We think your son’s death may be related. I know asking you to re-live everything is painful, but if you want the best chance of justice being done not just for you and your son, but for them as well, you’ll answer my questions.”
He watches Espinoza shift uncomfortably in his seat for a moment before the man nods.
“Now, walk me through exactly what happened that day.”
“It was Saturday. A little after three. Usually I get off around four. I own a small landscaping business. We were mulching the grounds at Wayne Memorial Hospital. I’d hired a couple new guys so we got the job done faster than usual, so I got off a little early and headed home. When I got home. I could…” Espinoza takes a deep shuddering breath, “I could smell cigarette smoke. I had found a pack of cigarettes in Emilio’s backpack oh, back in December and grounded him for a week. My father died from lung cancer when I was eighteen, y’know? I don’t want my son touching that stuff. But kids don’t listen. They don’t think about the consequences for stuff like that. As a parent all you wanna do is protect them, but they just don’t listen.” Espinoza scrubs a hand across his face before continuing, “He must have heard me come in, because I could hear him turn on the bathroom fan. Like that would help enough to get rid of the smell before I would notice. Kids are dumb like that,” Espinoza chuckles blankly and wipes his eyes on the cuffed sleeves of his jumpsuit.
“I knocked on the door a few times, tried to get in, but it was locked. So I started yelling at him, threatening to kick it down, take away his phone, that kind of thing. He was such a good kid growing up. But the past year, I guess teenage rebellion kicked in. I’ve been trying my best to be a good dad. Draw the line between discipline and fun. It’s hard as a single parent. So when he wouldn’t open the door, I got mad. When I finally did kick it open, he was already falling. All I saw was his feet go over the window ledge and hear him scream. Pack of cigarettes still sitting there on the sill.”
Dean nods mutely, gives Espinoza time to pull himself together before he starts asking the weird shit.
“So,” he starts finally, “that’s the same testament you gave to the case detective and Mr. Goodman, but its not the same as the original statement you gave to the first responders. Could you tell me what you told them?”
The question clearly throws Espinoza.
“I…I. What I told them…I had just seen my son die. I wasn’t thinking clearly, must have been seeing things,” he answers cagily.
“Mr. Espinoza, remember, I am on your side. This could help save more boys.”
Espinoza swallows, “I thought…for a second, I thought I saw a man in the mirror over the sink.”
“Was he behind you?”
“No. It was as if he would have been standing between me and the mirror. Except he was only in the reflection.”
“What did he look like?”
“Uh. Average height. Dark hair. Possibly Hispanic? Maybe in his early thirties? He was wearing a white shirt.”
“Anything else? Any distinguishing marks? Like a tattoo or wearing a ring.”
“Well…”
“Well what?” Dean poorly hides the impatience in his voice. He has to consciously reel himself back.
“Nothing like that but…the cops say its impossible. That no one could have been in there except without me seeing them leave. Cameras in the elevators and lobby didn’t see anyone strange leave the building between me and the cops arriving.”
“Mr. Espinoza, I don’t really care what the cops think is possible or not. Tell me what you saw.”
“Blood. One side of his face was covered in blood. A lot of it. Like his head had been bashed in.”
Dean blinks and sits back.
"Did you recognize him?"
"No."
"Did you know the Landers?" Dean switches gears, "They live on the twelfth floor of your building."
"Only in passing. I was sorry when I heard what happened to Eric."
Dean nods. He locks the phone between his shoulder and ear so he has two hands free and starts shuffling papers back into the folder.
"Were Eric and your son friends?"
"No. Not that I know of anyway. They went to different schools. Eric went to a private school I think. Emilio went to Gotham Metropolitan Middle. You really do think this is all related don’t you?”
Dean drops the file into the briefcase, "Yes, I do. Now I have one more question. Did you see, smell, or sense anything else strange leading up to your son's death? Flickering lights maybe? Anything like that?"
Espinoza’s brow wrinkles in confusion, “What? Sometimes the lights flicker, but nothing out of the ordinary. There was a smell maybe. Though, I’m not sure because of the cigarette smoke but—"
"Did it smell like rotten eggs?" Dean pushes, thumb poised over the briefcase latch.
"No. Not rotten eggs. More like, I don't know, burnt ozone? But that could be bad wiring?"
Dean stands up.
“Thank you Mr. Espinoza. You’ve been very helpful.”
He hangs up the phone in its cradle on the wall before Mr. Espinoza can say anything else. Mr. Espinoza stares at him with mouth open, phone still to his ear before he sweeps down the hall. He submits to another pat down and retrieves the silver pen-knife upon exiting. He’s surprised to find its already dark out as he trudges across the parking lot back to the Impala. It's too late to interview Lamont White’s family now. That will have to wait til tomorrow. He rings Sam as he pulls out onto the road.
"Hey Sam."
"Hey, what's up?" his brother's voice answers from the other end.
"Just wrapped up with Mr. Espinoza Sr. Did you grab a cab back to the motel or need me to pick you up?"
"Actually the doorman here recommended a nearby pizza place. I was going to walk. Want to meet me there?"
"Yeah sounds good. Where is it?"
"Uh, corner of Belmont and 23rd. It's three blocks down from where you dropped me off. Called 'Antonio's'."
"Alright, be there soon."
Soon is later than he would like. Goddamn Gotham, it’s a tangle of one way roads. When he finally arrives at Antonio's, the place is small. Not much more than a hole-in-the-wall. It has the standard red walls, checked table cloths, and paper placemat menus of a mom-and-pop Italian restaurant. It’s neither empty nor crowded. There are a couple of middle aged men at the bar and a family of five at the center table. He passes by the first booth and smothers a snicker at the young couple inside. A skinny teen with dark hair is falling all over himself in front of a pretty blonde who looks ready to eat him alive. He finds Sam at the back booth already chowing down on a salad.
"Hey! How'd it go?" Sam greets him.
"Good. Got a feel for what we're after."
"Yeah, yeah. Same here. Oh and I went ahead and put in an order for a pizza."
"What kind?"
"Meat lover's."
"Thank god. I was afraid you were gonna get one of those veggie monstrosities."
"Nah. Already got my rabbit food. You're safe."
Sam waves the waitress over. She's in her mid-thirties with red hair that doesn't go all the way down to the roots, too much eye-liner and a bored expression.
"Can I get a Bold Rock?" Sam asks with a smile.
The lines of her mouth ease up a little under his attention.
“And I’ll have Yuengling, please,” Dean chimes in.
He throws in a grin, and it's enough to crack her façade. She almost looks friendly when she brings them their drinks. Sam waits until Dean takes a long pull on his beer before getting to business.
"So I talked with Mrs. Landers and her husband. Basically they said all the same things they told the police. Eric was a stand-up kid: smart, athletic, had a pretty girlfriend. No reason to suspect suicide. When they got home after work the cops had already closed the street off. Didn't know it was for their son until they tried to get inside. Door to the apartment was locked. Apparently the police confiscated the video footage from the building for that day, but they told the Landers they didn't find anyone entering or leaving the apartment other than themselves."
"Espinoza said the same about the footage from the day his son died as well.”
“I'm not surprised. I tried to sneak out the EMF detector. It was going off pretty steady in the Landers apartment, spiked when I went near the balcony. Went off when I broke into the Espinoza apartment too, though not as strong."
Sam fades off as the waitress comes back, this time with their pizza on a tray. Dean grabs a slice but forces himself not to take a huge bite. He'd rather not burn the roof of his mouth off with scalding cheese. He talks to distract himself while it cools.
“That matches up pretty nice with what I found. Mr. Espinoza said he smelled burning ozone. And saw a man in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, except he wasn’t in the room. Sounds like an apparition. Said the guy looked like his head had been bashed in.”
“Hm," Sam hums. "Now, something that wasn’t in the police report is that the Lander’s had just moved in - only two weeks before Eric’s death. I think them moving in must have been the trigger for our ghost activity.”
Dean lets himself take a bite of pizza.
"Looks like you got your wish," Sam says wryly.
"Hm?"
"No witches, no demons. Just an easy old salt and burn."